tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24443420899760868442017-07-29T00:46:38.208-07:00Too Close to the T.V.I can't remember why my blog is named this...it's evolving.Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-77605775830580275322016-02-29T16:00:00.000-08:002016-02-29T16:00:52.482-08:00Our 2016 Leap Day Time Capsule QuestionnaireIt has been awhile since I've published anything on here, but what better use of an extra day in February!&nbsp;Happy Leap Day, everyone! <br /><br />Today I bring you a short and sweet questionnaire&nbsp;that I filled out with Q (4years old) and Felicity (who at 15 months provided no comment but plenty of inspiration).<br /><br />We plan on revisiting this adorable&nbsp;virtual time capsule next leap year.&nbsp; I absolutely lack the will to imagine how&nbsp;GROWN we will ALL be by then, but I certainly am looking forward to the journey.<br /><br />Without further ado, here are Mr. Q's answers:<br /><br />1. Favorite movie: The Good Dinosaur (I second that!&nbsp;"You are me and more," is my&nbsp;FAVE new thing to say EVER)<br />2. Favorite TV show: Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood <br />3. Favorite food: Chicken Nuggets<br />4. Favorite restaurant:&nbsp;Cracker&nbsp;Barrel<br />5. Favorite color: Red<br />6. Favorite book: Mickey Mouse Clubhouse book<br />7.&nbsp;Favorite toy: magnetic things<br />8. Favorite friend: Felicity (be still my heart)<br />9. Favorite weather: NOT rain<br />10. Favorite Superhero: Obi Wan<br /><br /><br />Now, my searches on Pinterest suggested to add some sort of projection about the future into the time capsule, however, it seems a little much for the age group I'm working with.&nbsp; No problem, I'll just tack some of my own hopes and dreams onto this ;)<br /><br />Right now, Q is 3 days post-op from his&nbsp;second airway surgery.&nbsp; He is doing well and has showed so much grace and happiness in the face of things many 4 year olds would&nbsp;punch someone&nbsp;over.&nbsp; It has&nbsp;been a long road getting here and with every bump it is clear that there is&nbsp;yet more road to cover before we can all&nbsp;'breathe easy.'&nbsp;&nbsp;Everyday, I learn a little more.&nbsp;&nbsp;Like how Q's easy-going personality is a gift to the world&nbsp;(in the same way that Felicity's discerning demeanor will somehow suit&nbsp;her life path perfectly).&nbsp; But by&nbsp;the next Leap Year, I hope&nbsp;not only for&nbsp;Good Health but&nbsp;for happy memories and a great adventure.&nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-3551905689492806302015-03-02T16:54:00.001-08:002015-03-04T16:13:20.956-08:005 things that make me a [happy] MomI recently read a blog post titled "5 things that make me a better Mom," and it got me thinking about what makes <i>me</i> a better Mom. I had a problem with the semantics, though, so as you can see I'm not going to write about what makes me 'better.' Not that I don't have a ton of room for improvement, I mean, who doesn't? It's just that I wasn't comfortable claiming that I'm even remotely good at this job. I give it my best shot. Wow, I'm doing a stellar job at selling myself here. Apologies to my children.&nbsp;<div><br></div><div>Except, no. I take that back. No apologies. Women have a bad habit of making these "Sorry, yada yada yada..." statements, right? Well, I'm going to banish these from my vernacular now.&nbsp;</div><div><br></div><div>Here are 5 things that make me a darn good, and happier, Mom:</div><div><br></div><div>1.) Not adhering to a strict schedule. The days here on Earth are pretty well regimented to begin with, no? The sun rises, we get up, eat three meals, the sun sets, we go to sleep. It's an awesome day when these things happen in order. I don't try to set the bar too high but it's not because I don't like a plan and routine, it's just that I'm actually so type A that if I were to schedule the day out for my little humans and then for some reason they didn't follow that schedule?!!! Then I would probably lose my ever-loving mind. &nbsp;My children get the things they need when they need them and it tends to fall around the same time each day anyway, I've just learned not to force it. Therefore, winging it makes me a good Mom.</div><div><br></div><div>2.) Trying to say Yes more in a day than I say No. I've never had a problem saying No. I probably say it too often. So each day, I try to be attentive to the Yes/No ratio coming out of me ol' pie hole. For example, my son always asks, "Mama, wanna play on the floor now?" (usually when sister is screaming). I always try to say Yes no matter how crazy the day has gotten. And when I have to say "not right now," boy, does it tug at my heart strings! Another cookie? Yes! (For Q and myself, don't mind if I do!!) Watch this movie for the umpteenth time? Yes! Read that same book again? Yes! Don't worry, my kids will get to know No in their lives too because I think that's important. The real world is full of big fat No Nos. That's why it's good to say Yessssss while you still can.</div><div><br></div><div>3.) Finding time to be creative. Whether it's once a day or once a week. Whether it's with my kids or without. Whether it's carving out an 'all-time favorites' on a strategically placed bookshelf my husband designed for me so that it's the last thing I see before I turn off the light at night or just painting with my son. Or maybe it's just taking time to write a little blog post. These are the little things that inspire me and make me happy, which then trickles down to the little ones.&nbsp;</div><div><br></div><div>4.) Building quiet time into our mornings. &nbsp; There's nothing worse, for me, than feeling rushed. And nothing worse than repeatedly telling your toddler to hurry up and eat breakfast because we have to do a, b, and c. Seriously, it takes my son a million years to eat breakfast (I don't know how I'm gonna get him to preschool on time next year!). &nbsp;But instead of getting frustrated now I'm just rolling with it because the first thing my daughter likes to do after she wakes up is nap, which is awesome! So we're taking some cues from her and loving it.</div><div><br></div><div>5.) Not sleeping when the babies sleep. I know, I know! But I just can't feel like a normal person unless I get something accomplished while they are sleeping. Sometimes it's just a shower or getting through that pile of New Yorker's.&nbsp;<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But sometimes it's cleaning the kitchen! &nbsp;All these things &nbsp;actually give me a little energy and refresh me for when the kiddos wake up. If I tried to nap, I would just be drowsy and annoyed by the time they woke up. Another important part of this is staying up after I put them in bed, which is never over with until like 9pm!! I look forward to this time spent talking with my husband and just hanging out together, watching Netflix or catching up on our DVR...it gives me some much needed support and perspective as a Mom and as Molly.&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-35478411342152399592015-02-19T11:36:00.000-08:002015-02-20T04:32:17.564-08:00Felicity Kate's ArrivalEven though I prefer the word 'arrival,' this is really a birth story. I always enjoy reading others' birth stories as long as they don't get too heavy into the icky details. This is to say, don't worry, no disgusting details to follow here. And now it is my turn to add to the conversation:<br /><br />I don't mean to sound like a smug jerk or anything, but I couldn't have asked for a better birth experience. Which is really awesome, right? If you want a dramatic birth story, hop on over to my <a href="http://tooclosetothetv.blogspot.com/2013/02/bears-all-things.html" target="_blank">account of my firstborn's birth.</a><br /><br />&nbsp;Maybe that is where this birth story really starts, in the aftermath of my firstborn's. I carried a lot of fear and bitterness around afterwards. Not only was birth difficult, so we're the first 3 months, but that is for another post entirely. The point is, I thought I'd never do it again. But I'm here to say that I'm so glad I didn't let fear take this incredible experience from me.<br /><br />From the first positive pregnancy test, I knew I was going to do things differently. First off, get a new OB because I no longer trusted my old one. This was the best decision, by far. I only regret not switching sooner!<br /><br />Secondly, worry less. Easier said than done. I was kind of counting on the old adage, "Every pregnancy is different," because I didn't want a repeat of my first go around. So my wonderful OB's threw in some extra testing to set my mind at ease. Namely, a fetal echocardiogram with a specialist because Mr. Q was born with not 1 but 3 holes in his heart (ASD, VSD, and a PDA for all you heart experts reading! Don't worry after a minor--psshhh, of course he made it dramatic!--procedure at 22 months his ticker is perfectly fine). No worries, right? I worried until the day of the test, then we were blessed with amazing news: everything was normal this time. Huge sigh of relief! Not that we didn't know how to handle these hiccups now anyways!!<br /><br />Then came the dreaded glucose test, which I was unable to pass--again! But this time it was because I couldn't keep the drink down!! Seriously, it feels like drinking poison to me. Anyway, it was a huge bummer because, like I&nbsp;mentioned before,&nbsp;I wanted this pregnancy to be different.&nbsp; I blamed Q's respiratory issues at birth on diabetic problems and insulin dependence. I didn't want to go down that road again. And my wonderful OBs agreed. No insulin, just moderate diet control (but still daily pricking of the finger mainly because I refused to take the glucose test again...I'm not a difficult patient or anything!) They weren't worried about it though, so neither was I.&nbsp; That was how it was different from the last time. No one was trying to scare me by telling me that I might have a stillborn baby if I didn't take my insulin. Because, seriously? That practice was horrible! Anyone can have a stillborn baby, not just diabetics, so unless those 'doctors' think it's cool to go around saying that to ALL pregnant women--c'mon we are hard enough on ourselves--they'd better zip their lips or all their patients are going to be crying in their cars on their way home from their appointments. Whew, glad I got that out!! Again new OB practice = best decision for a healthy pregnancy.<br /><br />Then came the (false alarm) day 11.11.14. which is funny because even though I was due on 11.20, I told everyone I just had a feeling it would be 11.11...it wasn't a feeling, I just liked the numbers and wanted to be done being pregnant by then!<br /><br />After calling in and being recommended to L&amp;D (which they now call OB ED, totally different situation over there from last time), I was hooked up, checked out and sent home. This was actually ok with me, though, because I obviously had some issues to deal with about giving birth and it dawned on me suddenly that I was not ready. It's ok, I told myself, I'll probably be pregnant until December.&nbsp; Plenty of time to swallow my fear and bitterness and keep on <em>not</em> dealing with it. Easy peasy.<br /><br />Went home, ordered pizza for dinner, instagrammed my toddler eating it. Normal Tuesday stuff, ya know? Cuddled up on the couch and watched some movies without any hint of contractions that night. Slept like a baby!<br /><br />I woke up exhausted and crampy on Wednesday morning, 11.12. But I thought, what's new? I'll tell you what's new...by the time I finished making my toddler breakfast I was in tears from my tummy pain! I made myself eat some toast and then begrudgingly called in again thinking, I'm going to be that crazy woman who is in there everyday until I give birth (which will be a long ways away!). I didn't know the signs of labor because I was induced the first time.<br /><br />So again I drive myself to L&amp;D around 10:30 AM. In hindsight, not smart, but we live really close to the hospital so if my contractions were 6 min apart I about made it (note: they should have reserved parking spaces "for mothers who are in labor and were stupid enough to drive themselves").<br /><br />They hooked me up and this time I was 2cm dialated and my contractions were anywhere from 2 to 6 minutes apart.&nbsp; So they decided to keep me an hour and check again before deciding whether or not to send me home. So a little after noon and hour of pure agony, I had made progress!! The OB on call said we were having a baby today! Of course I cried a little!&nbsp; Because I was all alone and having a baby is scary and also my tummy hurt, that was probably a small part of it too. Then I got it in my mind I better text my husband and tell him to haul-butt up to the hospital! Sometimes? You just need a good cry while your in active labor to clear your mind. It was all business from there on out.<br /><br />Eddie finally made it--he had to grab all my bags because I was obviously not prepared for it to be the day.&nbsp; Close to 1pm, they moved me to this labor and delivery room with a beautiful view!<br /><br />We had a great nurse. I'm kind of ageist when it comes to this. By that I mean, the older the better. I'm not calling this nurse old or anything like that, haha! It's hard to put it nicely!! But this is absolutely a bias I have; I recognize that. I want a mature,experienced nurse (same goes&nbsp;for doctors)&nbsp;who knows what to say when you are freaking out, not just "why are you crying?!"--that happened. All I'm saying is... at least be older than me, OK? So we really got lucky because she was the absolute best.<br /><br />By 2pm I had all my IVs hooked up. One with penicillin because I was positive for group b strep. They like to give 2 doses of it over several hours before the baby is born, otherwise your baby has to stay the full 48 in the hospital for observation (basically temperature checks every 4 hours just like any other baby).&nbsp; And I had a little pain reliever through IV too. That was a nice little cocktail.<br /><br /><br />Next, I wanted an epidural. So that happened around 3 pm. They were on the ball. In the hospital, usually there's a lot of waiting around, but it didn't feel like it this time.<br /><br />The doctor and nurse promised a drama-free experience this time around and, boy, did they deliver!! (Couldn't resist that pun).<br /><br />Around 4:30 pm, I told the nurse I felt like it was time to push. She checked me and I was good to go but she couldn't feel the head (me: panicking!!). She ran--actually ran--to grab the ultrasound machine from the OR, because the doc was prepping for a c-section. He was so busy that day, I think he delivered 4 other babies!<br /><br />Turned out, Felicity was still head down. But my water had not broken yet, so the doc was called in to do that. Eddie said that when the doctor reported the waters were nice and clear, I actually fist-pumped the air and yelled 'Yesss!' like I was at a sporting event or something. I was so excited because that was not the case last time and I knew how serious things could get.<br /><br />Then the doc ran out to catch some babies down the hall and told the nurse to let me 'labor down.' But I had to push so she called him back after only 5 minutes.<br /><br />It was probably 4:45 pm at this point. And dear little Felicity was born at 5:11 pm!! It went so quickly, I only remember the last push hurt pretty bad, regardless of the epidural and I said "I just can't!" Typical me, trying to abandon the task at hand because it's too hard. Turns out you don't get to be like that when you're having a baby!!<br /><br />But it was so sweet when they placed that screaming, sweet bundle on my chest (a first for me!).&nbsp; I was so nervous that when she calmed down and stopped crying, I kept asking "is she ok? How come she's so quiet!" And the doctor laughed and said, she's just happy! Which was perfect.<br /><br />She was only about a 37.5 week baby, which is now considered 'early term' so the doctor was very surprised at how chunky she was! 7 lbs 14 oz. She was just ready to take on the world, I guess.<br /><br />&nbsp;Our nurse said she was super cute and didn't look like a newborn...it's the hair! Maybe she was just humoring us, but when it's was time to move to a Mother-Baby room, she sweetly hugged Felicity goodbye and said, "I'll remember you for a long time Felicity!" God bless our nurse!<br /><br />Around 8 pm, when I was ready to eat and move, Eddie brought me a bagel and orange juice from Panera for my first meal...oh how I missed those carbs and sugary juices, but I really haven't had any since. I guess you only miss it when you can't have it.<br /><br />&nbsp;We were so over the moon happy, that I barely realized she came too fast for my penicillin drip to finish! But 48 hours was nothing compared to the 7 day NICU stay last time. Felicity's sugars were perfect, though.<br /><br />I am so grateful Felicity was a good nurser, like she could have taught a newborn class on it. Girl can eat!<br /><br />Eddie stayed at home with Q overnight, but the night nurses were wonderful and took Felicity to the nursery in between feedings so I could sleep and they could re wash and comb and play with Felicity's hair...seriously, so much of it! Felicity also has this really loud squawk/cry. So I could hear her being wheeled down the hall every time she was ready to eat. Sorry, hospital room neighbors!<br /><br />The next day she had her newborn tests. But she failed her hearing (she eventually passed after a re-test). Apparently, she was born so quickly she still had a lot of fluid in her. She was also quite the sneezer for this reason too!<br /><br />Finally it was discharge night, 11.14.12. It was cold and dark, completely different from sunny and 60s when I went in.&nbsp; Well, everything was completely different than when I went in.<br /><br />I can't tell you how happy I was to be leaving the hospital carrying a new baby in my arms instead of some congratulatory plant like&nbsp;the last time.&nbsp; <br /><br />And that is the story (and then some) of the wonderful, miraculous night you were born, Felicity!! <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UXxX9fBgLOg/VOY18jMkvCI/AAAAAAAAANo/uxRPmUDh1Xs/s1600/DSCN3930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UXxX9fBgLOg/VOY18jMkvCI/AAAAAAAAANo/uxRPmUDh1Xs/s1600/DSCN3930.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br />Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-32423383721850899772015-02-14T09:26:00.000-08:002015-02-14T09:30:08.357-08:00Little love notes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SxBR99qIQI8/VN-EmUkG26I/AAAAAAAAANM/4pRqOkB-h5k/s1600/DSCN4339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SxBR99qIQI8/VN-EmUkG26I/AAAAAAAAANM/4pRqOkB-h5k/s1600/DSCN4339.JPG" height="502" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Dear Quent,<br /><br />I can't believe it! You are halfway to 4. Wow. I love you more and more as you are growing into a 'little boy.' Your big boy haircut makes you look even more mature. I love how sometimes you blurt out these crazy mature insights like they're just on the tip of your tongue and then other times you take your time to think things through before you answer our questions.<br /><br />I love your thoughtfulness.&nbsp; I love your imagination.&nbsp; I love how easily you give out compliments: "You're a beautiful girl!" or, "You're a good baby," you say every single day to Felicity. <br /><br />"You're a a good, Mom," and "You're the best Dad!" you say pretty often...<br /><br />I love that you can fall in love with so many things! You are enthusiastic about everything (especially doing all the things "all by myself!" which is awesome). People should be like you!<br /><br />Love your hugs and cuddles, sweet boy.<br /><br />Xoxo,<br />Mommy<br /><br /><br />Dear Felicity,<br /><br />How much did I just love writing that, Dear Felicity!&nbsp; I could say it all day, sweet girl, dear Felicity.&nbsp; We&nbsp;are still getting to know&nbsp;each other, but I hope you love&nbsp;our little family as much as we love you!&nbsp; Your brother loves you so much.&nbsp; Your Daddy is already wrapped around your finger and you and I are good buddies.<br /><br />We have so many hopes for you, but most of all we wish for you what your namesake suggests: Happiness!!&nbsp; And, so far so&nbsp;good, because you are smiley (and smelly...but that's true love!!)<br /><br />Love and Happiness,<br />Mommy<br /><br />&nbsp;Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-49294820175978727082015-02-10T11:24:00.000-08:002015-02-10T11:24:19.336-08:00Whoah, baby! I'm back!!Thanks, Timehop, for reminding today that I have a "baby blog." It was fun reminiscing about my then only child! Wow, it's been forever!!! 2 years ago, to be exact, I opened with<a href="http://tooclosetothetv.blogspot.com/2013/02/stay-at-home.html?m=1" target="_blank"> this post</a> about becoming a SAHM. I think it was that piece that got my writing in gear and I published several of my <a href="http://www.vanderbilt.edu/english/nashvillereview/archives/7360" target="_blank">stories</a> on the interwebs since then.&nbsp;After that, I took a break again, you know, if you calling <em>having another baby</em> a break.<br /><br /> Our family has changed and grown so much since I last stopped by the bloggity-blog. I hope I will have time to update it more regularly. Time&nbsp;is a blur&nbsp;with two babies, yet there is twice as much I want to capture and record. Maybe for Lent, I will try to make a commitment to exercise the ol' phalanges on the keyboard.<br /><br /> So, I'm not sure where this post is going other than to say that I'm back!<br /><br /> And that I live in leggings. It's a good day when I get to put on jeans. Most days I wear all of these things because I get spit up on. A lot.<br /><br /> Also, I think my kids are so beautiful and funny that I just don't know how they could be related to me. I'm sure all you Moms can relate! Must be the honeymoon phase, right? But I'm gonna chase that feeling. Yes, I am.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9-ptWTpteAY/VNpaT0QrwwI/AAAAAAAAAM8/GoIESsPiYv0/s1600/DSCN4290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9-ptWTpteAY/VNpaT0QrwwI/AAAAAAAAAM8/GoIESsPiYv0/s1600/DSCN4290.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />&nbsp;Sometimes I get this trippy feeling when I look at these two: Are they really here? How are they mine? It's not disbelief (I know they are really, REALLY, real and I am charged with their care...it's definitely apparent when they're up at 1 AM and/or I'm covered in spit-up). It's more like amazement.&nbsp; That's what 2 kids is like for me. Happy amazement. Scary amazement. Lonely amazement. Tired amazement.<br /><br /> K, thanks for reading!<br /><br /> Coming soon:<br /> Felicity's birth story (because I'm trying to be fair here, and I want to remember it)!Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-1011783166975682262013-05-24T12:27:00.000-07:002013-05-24T12:27:37.939-07:0021 Month NewsletterDear Son,<br /><br />So this is <em>l-a-t-e</em>, but May has been CRAZY (more on that at a later date).&nbsp; We did manage to celebrate your 21 month marker&nbsp;and Mother's Day on the&nbsp;13th though.&nbsp; We went to a local petting zoo and I got in free...what more could a Mom ask for?&nbsp; <br /><br />But seriously, it is such a joy to watch you grow from a baby into a little boy.&nbsp; You are now 32 in. tall!! You can say "please" at appropriate times and actually ask me if you can eat geen-beens (green beans)&nbsp;for dinner.&nbsp; And in the evenings you often walk up to me and say, "Bubble bath?" (you can pronounce these two words exquisitely), even when you've already had one, and I oblige.&nbsp; Because, hey, why not allow you that joy? &nbsp;It's not everyday in life that we get to take two bubble baths.&nbsp; And did I mention that when I say it's time for a nap or night-night you DON'T cry?!&nbsp; What did I do to deserve this good fortune?&nbsp; It's the little things amongst all the crazy...&nbsp; <br /><br />And your current obsession:&nbsp; SUPERHEROS.&nbsp; As soon as you wake up in the morning, you ask not for Mama or Dada, but 'Biderman aka Spiderman.&nbsp; I showed you the 1960's cartoon theme-song on YouTube and now you are hooked.<br /><br />Anyways, thanks for being you kiddo!<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MgE2C5GX1LU/UZ--V17GxaI/AAAAAAAAAFE/RspN7ZLM9m0/s1600/DSCN2181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="419" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MgE2C5GX1LU/UZ--V17GxaI/AAAAAAAAAFE/RspN7ZLM9m0/s640/DSCN2181.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bears are still a favorite<br /><br /><div align="left">&nbsp;</div><div align="left">&nbsp;</div><div align="left">Love,</div><div align="left">&nbsp;</div><div align="left">Mom﻿</div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-41527864773406818862013-04-13T15:41:00.004-07:002013-04-13T16:18:13.284-07:0020 Month NewsletterDear Son,<br /><br />The best&nbsp;part about Spring is that stuff you previously believed to be dead and gone--like the craggy tufts of dried debris in our potted plants--are actually alive.&nbsp; One undetermined day the grass turns from brown to verdant green.&nbsp; The bare tree branches have brand new leaves--ones so green they look yellow.&nbsp; Spring is the moment when you suddenly see things, in my opinion, the way they are meant to be seen.&nbsp; The Spring season lasts for a few months, but the imperceptible act of "spring" seems so fleeting.&nbsp; I wish I could capture this moment for you.&nbsp; <br /><br />Today is your 20 month birthday (woah!).&nbsp; It's great it falls on a Saturday because you, me and Dad spent all day together.&nbsp; We hung out at&nbsp;home, outside.&nbsp; We threw the ball.&nbsp; We looked at earth worms and you laughed--that infectious one&nbsp;where your whole body shakes like a bowl full of jelly--when Dad showed you how to spit off the deck (so grown).&nbsp; Now, inside we play with&nbsp;Star Wars and Marvel hero figurines.&nbsp; Oh, and a cow and a zebra.&nbsp; We'll probably even eat your favorite food (pizza) tonight.&nbsp; It's been pretty much (barring your new penchant for rising early&nbsp;on the weekends) the perfect day.&nbsp; &nbsp; <br /><br />I often wish I could capture SO MANY moments because you are growing and changing so quickly.&nbsp; Always smarter, funnier, more handsome, more vocal than the moment before.&nbsp; And every time I get you out of your crib after nap time you are somehow heavier and&nbsp;more limb-y<span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;in </span>my arms than just a few hours before.<br /><br />That is life son; things they are a changin'.&nbsp; You&nbsp;will always be our blessing.&nbsp; It is such a pleasure to be your parent.<br /><br />And since they say a picture is worth a thousand words, here are a few shots from today:&nbsp; <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P2GDC7YDlKc/UWndpbDPQEI/AAAAAAAAAEk/Vy-Jq0V5STM/s1600/DSCN2093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P2GDC7YDlKc/UWndpbDPQEI/AAAAAAAAAEk/Vy-Jq0V5STM/s640/DSCN2093.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tfz9eWgP7ag/UWnecFEUjYI/AAAAAAAAAEs/yMV6ouc92qY/s1600/DSCN2108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tfz9eWgP7ag/UWnecFEUjYI/AAAAAAAAAEs/yMV6ouc92qY/s640/DSCN2108.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Love, <br />MomMolly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-88842095962315521912013-03-29T13:22:00.001-07:002013-03-29T13:22:05.223-07:00If Morning Ever ComesDear Son,<br /><br />Remember when I wrote about Dad having a cold?&nbsp; Well, you and I have just returned from the Pediatrician's office,&nbsp;and you have&nbsp;croup. Again.&nbsp; Seems it's your regular affliction.&nbsp; It could be worse.&nbsp; You've been in good spirits so far and right now you are napping beside me on the couch, peacefully propped-up on a pillow.&nbsp; Where I can listen to every snore and whistle and determine if intervention is necessary.&nbsp; I took a picture of you and sent it to your Dad, because you are just too cute when you're snoozing.&nbsp;<br /><br />But this is not how I felt at 5&nbsp;A.M., when&nbsp;Dad and I crawled, on all fours, into your darkened room to listen to you breathe after we were&nbsp;awakened by wheezing and&nbsp;a weak coughing&nbsp;coming from the baby monitor.&nbsp; We equipped ourselves with an albuterol neb treatment and crept slowly, slowly, slowly into the dark, mechanical whir that is&nbsp;your room at night, with the cool-mist humidifier and the ceiling fan lulling you to sleep in a carefully air-aquality controlled environment.&nbsp; <br /><br />And with the flick of the nebulizer's ON switch you were awake.&nbsp; Cheerfully, so.&nbsp; You sat and greeted your Dad, who was trying to sneak the child sized mask through your crib railing, with a happy, "Aye!"&nbsp; We hit the deck, &nbsp;frozen in terror, like wild animals who have sensed the presence of Man in the woods.&nbsp; You have impeccable night-vision.&nbsp; Then louder, almost shouting, comes "Aye!"&nbsp; A warning, a siren ready to wail.&nbsp;And all hope for a complete, if not good, nights sleep is lost.<br /><br />So for two dim hours, you and I sit in the recliner in your room, rocking and singing, rocking and singing.&nbsp; You snoozing fitfully for a few minutes, me enduring knees in my rib-cage, an elbow shoved forcefully under my chin.&nbsp; Then you startle, sit up, point to something I can't see and proclaim, "Beee!"&nbsp; The wee hours can make anyone a little loopy.&nbsp; More rocking and humming, too early to remember the words to anything.&nbsp; Yes, even the ABCs.&nbsp; Sweat has matted your hair to your forehead and your batman pajamas are wrinkled and stretched.&nbsp; Evidence of a fitful night's sleep.&nbsp; I fiddle with the neck of your tee-shirt, sure that if I can get it to lay just right I can ease your breathing.&nbsp; We rearrange&nbsp;in the recliner.&nbsp; Try to sleep.&nbsp; Elbow. Ribcage. Repeat.&nbsp;<br /><br />It reminds me of my favorite Anne Tyler novel, <em>If Morning Ever Comes</em>.&nbsp;The narrator, Ben Joe,&nbsp;is the youngest brother of a large,&nbsp;female-centric, dysfunctional (is there any other kind?), Southern family.&nbsp;&nbsp;The novel gets its title, specifically, from a scene the narrator remembers: He spends the night before a big Farmers Market/State Fair/Tractor Show&nbsp;next to a farmer and his&nbsp;disabled son who have just set up their stall.&nbsp; The son is so excited for the big hoopla the next day that he asks his father&nbsp;as soon as they lay down to sleep, and with increasing frequency, "Is it morning yet?"&nbsp; Over and over again.&nbsp; Finally, the&nbsp; boy's father gets up and packs up, exclaiming "If morning ever comes!"&nbsp; The narrator, less specifically,&nbsp;applies this adage to his own family drama, which always seems to happen in the middle of the night--someone leaving, someone coming, someone fighting, and&nbsp;no one in their bed where or when they're supposed to be.&nbsp; Oh, how life mimics art!!<br /><br />So in the familiar dread of the "wee" hours, inevitable with any child (as&nbsp;your&nbsp;kind doctors have said: It's not <em>if&nbsp;</em>they get sick but <em>when</em>...), I find myself thinking that morning will never come, and if it ever does, can't it come sooner?!&nbsp; Because, somehow, having a sick child seems less daunting when it's light outside.&nbsp; Maybe&nbsp;for the same reason that&nbsp;kids (like you!) sleep with a night-light; things seem a little less scary when you shed a little light on them.<br /><br />And all of this happened on Good Friday, no less (not really a "good" day--the day we remember that Jesus was crucified and died on the cross--more of a somber day).&nbsp; You could take "good" to signify the good news that Jesus died for our sins so that all who believe him may live or you could just have a little faith that morning WILL come and everything will be A-OK.&nbsp;&nbsp;<br /><br />I hope you'll be on the mend pronto!<br /><br />Love you (even in the wee hours),<br /><br />MomMolly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-71037172541500705282013-03-13T05:00:00.000-07:002013-03-13T06:24:08.348-07:0019 Month Newsletter Dear Son, <br /><br />Today marks our 19 month anniversary!&nbsp; For most, a monthly newsletter written to a baby (that sounds a little silly) would include things like important milestones.&nbsp; Not here.&nbsp; Milestones, though exciting, are too medical and if you've read anything I've written this far--you know I have a distaste (and that's using kind words) for anything medical.<br /><br />Yes, this month was the month you learned to kick a ball, shush people, run (head first), and scale things to a moderately terrifying height (the coffee table and couches).&nbsp; You also got ANOTHER pair of shoes.&nbsp; And did I mention that you've shown interest in drinking out of a wide-mouthed cup?&nbsp; At dinnertime, you often remove the straw from your sippy cup, bring cup to lips, and tip the thing upward (just had to brag a little).&nbsp; <br /><br />Now, onto the more important things we've been doing this month:&nbsp; Star Wars.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wv1pq8snpi4/UT94XJf1IcI/AAAAAAAAAEU/BUp316g7BVs/s1600/DSCN1900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="336" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wv1pq8snpi4/UT94XJf1IcI/AAAAAAAAAEU/BUp316g7BVs/s400/DSCN1900.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I spy, with my little eye...a&nbsp;box turtle!!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You, me, and Dad viewed <em>A New Hope </em>a couple of weekends ago and we had a blast.&nbsp; We had to fast forward through some slow scenes (only to finish before bedtime, because you have an excellent attention span.&nbsp; There's just so much to brag about).&nbsp; Result: You are obsessed with R2D2.&nbsp; And your Dad found some pretty cool figurines that you take everywhere now, replacing your poor old <a href="http://tooclosetothetv.blogspot.com/2013/02/favorite-things.html" target="_blank">Buddha</a>.&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You've also developed a unique set of skills.&nbsp; For instance, you can turn anything into a cell-phone.&nbsp; I mean, ANYTHING.&nbsp; It started with a straw, which you attached around your ear and proceeded to march around the house talking into.&nbsp; You do your best talking while you're walking (me too).&nbsp; Then, it was a french fry, you picked it off your tray, held it to the side of your face and began babbling.&nbsp; You got a pretty good laugh out of us, so the french fry phone has become part of your regular shtick, when you're feeling punchy.&nbsp; Other objects-converted-into-cell-phones include: T.V. remotes, toy cars, rattles, and bottles of baby lotion.&nbsp; Apparently, you've got a lot to say kiddo.&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You also excel at making car, train, and airplane noises.&nbsp; Which means you're also really good at making&nbsp;any object into a&nbsp;MOVING object.&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What else?&nbsp; Oh, the dancing.&nbsp; Sometimes I turn on the radio&nbsp;so you can run around (mostly stomping and kicking) to the music.&nbsp; Every now and then you attempt a forward roll just to mix things up.&nbsp; Slapping your knees is your favorite move.&nbsp;And Ho, Hey by the Lumineers is your favorite song (it has a catchy&nbsp;chorus that you can actually sing along to).&nbsp; You've&nbsp;got excellent tastes and you've really found your groove.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You have a few favorite games too.&nbsp; (1) I like to call Knock-Knock.&nbsp; This entails going around the house and knocking on any closed&nbsp;door we can find and then opening it to see who's there (as you can see, we've gotten pretty creative in the colder months).&nbsp;&nbsp;Knocking on the bathroom door is your favorite because we can see ourselves in the mirror when we open it. (2) Fetch with the dogs.&nbsp; Jack Pup is the best sport, but&nbsp;sometimes&nbsp;you throw the ball AT him (with suprising force and accuracy) instead of FOR him.&nbsp; In which case Jack does the brotherly thing and just walks away, leaving you to play your other favorite game: throw the ball.&nbsp; (3) Hide and&nbsp;Seek.&nbsp; In which you hide but also sometimes hide objects of interest, like the remote control or the couch pillows, in your tent we have set up in the dining room.&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You have also developed&nbsp;quite a taste for books (which makes your Dad and I so proud).&nbsp; One of your favorites right now is <em>"Slowly, Slowy, Slowly," said the&nbsp;Sloth</em>&nbsp;by Eric Carle.&nbsp; You also like&nbsp;our coffee table books: one, called <em>Smiles</em>&nbsp;because it's miniature and has black and white photos of all sorts of different people smiling.&nbsp; When we read it we practice smiling, which you are really good at doing (and I hope you always will be).&nbsp; Another is our wedding album.&nbsp; I love when you haul that&nbsp;clunky thing off the table and&nbsp;place it my lap for us to read together.&nbsp; We make up the words as we go along--they're always different--but mostly we practice saying the names of&nbsp;all the family members we see in the photographs.&nbsp; It's a great reminder of who we are, how we got here, and how lucky we are to be together--the three of us.&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Everything you do makes us proud son--not just the milestones, but everything in between.&nbsp; Because that's the stuff that makes you YOU.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Love, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Mom&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<em>﻿</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">﻿</div>Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-27341321313563937742013-03-03T14:18:00.001-08:002013-03-03T14:18:30.123-08:00L, M, N, O, P = Q<span lang="EN"><span lang="EN"><h3>A Post in Numbers and Letters: Mom meets Dad</h3></span><br /><em>September 2008…we see each other in a Borders Bookstore</em><br /> <br /><br />&nbsp;<strong> 1</strong>&nbsp; <em>month later…we started dating</em><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"></span> <strong>14&nbsp;</strong> <em>months after that…we were married: </em>&nbsp;12.27.09<br /> <span style="font-size: medium;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><strong>12</strong>&nbsp;&nbsp;<em>months after that…we were pregnant</em><br /> <br /> &nbsp;<strong> <span style="font-size: medium;">9</span></strong>&nbsp;&nbsp; <em>months after that…we meet you!</em> (see <a href="http://tooclosetothetv.blogspot.com/2013/02/bears-all-things.html">Bears all things</a>)<br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> Dear Son,<br /> <br />Since I’m on a roll with blast-from-the-past letters, I thought I’d tell you about the time I met your Dad. I’m sure, in few years, I’ll get to tell you in person as many times as you'd like to hear it. But I wanted to write you here too because these are the stories that make us a family. <br /> <br />I first read <i>The Heart is a Lonely Hunter</i>, by Carson McCullers in my first-year seminar class at Mount Holyoke College. The seminar was called “Growing up Southern.” I took it because I was Southern—at least according to all the girls from New England and Philly—and also considered myself a grown up on most days of the week. The seminar was a course in the English department, though, and I really had no interest in reading and writing then. <br /> <br />My memory of <i>Lonely Hunter</i> is tied inextricably to that gnarled New England campus and also to a sense of achievement (don’t worry, the part where I meet your Dad is coming—let’s just quickly skim over several years here, years when I wish I knew him, but sadly didn’t yet). So I finished the book, which I rarely did with books then. I enjoyed it, and my professor wrote some nice comments on my paper that I now can’t remember. And this is how it happened that I became an English major who agonized over many, many more books, papers and comments from professors that I do recall like “pyrotechnic syntax to cover up complete lack of substance.”&nbsp;(We've all got flaws, son).<br /> <br />Somehow after college, I ended up working in a bookstore where I often got lost in the M’s, picking up Melville paperbacks, reading the first lines of McEwen novels, and discovering McCullers’ collection of short stories. In the alcove of L, M, N, O and P is where I met your Dad—who was wearing a ball-cap and wondering what to read— and I recommended, since we were standing in the Ms, that he buy <i>The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.</i> For a moment he seemed put off by the “Oprah Book Club Selection” stamp on the front cover hanging next to a black and white photograph of a sad-looking woman with bangs, sitting in bunch of brush. <br /> <br />“I’ll take it,” he finally said. And I was so relieved, too, when he suggested that after he finished it, we could grab a coffee together (Though, I later found out that he doesn’t even drink coffee, which is just fine). <br /> <br />That night, after my closing shift, I went home and picked up my own paperback copy (without the Oprah sticker) and began reading to refresh my memory. <br /> <br />It begins “In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together.” <br /> <br />Son, I don’t think I could have picked a weirder book. Maybe one day you’ll read it too and think the same. But your Dad came back after all, and thank goodness he didn’t wait until he’d finished it!<br /> <br />Your Dad and I must have seen each other before this exact instance in time (and we continued to see each other for many, many more instances), but this is how it will go down in family history. This is how I became an educated woman, a married woman&nbsp;and (you guessed it) a Mom.&nbsp;Thanks to Carson McCullers.<br /> <br />Always remember that you have parents who love each other (and you) very, very much; and that makes you one of the lucky ones, kid. <br /> <br />I hope one day, you find as much joy in books (and sharing them with someone special)&nbsp;as we have.<br /> <br />Love,<br /> <br />Mom</span>Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-15207315981778449272013-02-28T14:24:00.001-08:002013-02-28T14:25:19.893-08:00Waiting Room Phobia<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Son,<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today was your eighteen month checkup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Boy, do we hate doctors’ offices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Let me state that although I believe there isn’t anyone who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doesn’t</i> hate waiting rooms, WE <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hate them more</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C-l6dabAkC8/US_U93DayfI/AAAAAAAAAEE/QQamG53Vjsg/s1600/If-Anti-Bacterial-Kills-99_9-Percent-Of-Germs-355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C-l6dabAkC8/US_U93DayfI/AAAAAAAAAEE/QQamG53Vjsg/s400/If-Anti-Bacterial-Kills-99_9-Percent-Of-Germs-355.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You, Dad, and I have actually been in enough waiting rooms in your short time that you’d think we‘d desensitize ourselves by now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>That our heart-rate wouldn’t increase a little crossing the threshold (not touching anything with our hands of course—elbows, knees, and feet are acceptable though), that our palms wouldn’t sweat, that our stomachs wouldn’t turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have to actively fight the urge to just stand (chairs are ripe with germs) at the optimal 6 feet from EVERYONE in the room (sick or well, I don’t care) while clutching you to my body until the nurse calls your name—I’ve done this actually and I think it makes other people uncomfortable, but again: I don’t care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>You see I live in a world where I don’t pretend that the germs aren’t calling the shots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Think about those tiny organisms invading our much, much bigger human bodies, making us miserable, incapacitating us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Sure Suzy Q. and Johnny can run around the Well Waiting Area with a snot nose and lingering cough (you’re on my S#*! list parents of Suzie Q. and Johnny. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>One day, I’ll explain what this kind of list is—a long, long time from now) and none of the other parents will worry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>No big deal, right? WRONG.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Many nights have your father and I set the alarm for every two hours so that we can give you a nebulizer treatment because you’ve caught a little cold. More than once have we been to the E.R. at 5 a.m. (it’s always 5 a.m.) because you couldn’t breathe. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I stock pile the remainder of any prescription steroids in the medicine cabinets—oldest in the front, newer in the back—in case of an emergency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>No matter how many times you’ve had a cold, a virus, the croup; it never gets any easier hearing you struggle to breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And this is probably the seed of my WRP (Waiting Room Phobia). <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But you are such a trooper, kid. Strong, patient, and good-natured through it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As you’ve gotten older, you’ve become more resilient (despite my refusal to leave the house whenever I see “Sick baby” trending on Facebook statuses).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So today, I thought I’d take it a little bit easier in the WR.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After checking in (when I couldn’t find my own pen to use—tip: always have your own pen handy, son, no matter where you are), we used hand wipes two times before I’d even made it to a chair in the well area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There were too many people in the room for me to find a chair that was 6 feet from everyone, so I settled for a chair in the corner, that way I had my back to no one –all threats (thanks again, parents of Suzy Q. and Johnny) were visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Now that you are more mobile and curious in new surroundings I worried that you might whine and squirm to get down--which is absolutely OFF LIMITS FOREVER.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But thank goodness, you are an introvert like me, perfectly happy to sit in my lap and observe the absurdity around you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kids rolling on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Kids coughing and wiping their hands and faces all over the windows—I admit the view of the apple orchards from the 4<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> floor is pretty cool, but really? Is that necessary! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Kids TOUCHING EACH OTHERS FACES—grossest thing I’ve seen all week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Parents coughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Parents wearing Pooh shirts (this is a double entendre—I’ll explain that one day too).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I tried to think clean thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I thought of the NICU and the Scrubbing-in sink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I wondered where I could get and install one of these in our home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the time they called our name, which was a good 15 minutes; you had decided that it was okay to talk to the cute newborn baby girl who was trying to sleep next to us. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aye, </i>(hi) you greeted her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And they told you how cute you were and you smiled for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buh-bye</i>, you waved when we got up to leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, perhaps it’s not me who’s really giving a lesson or saying anything meaningful about my stupid Waiting Room Phobia, maybe it’s you who is teaching your Mom a thing or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>That maybe it’s OK, to say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hello</i>once in a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We made it out of there alive, after all, and at least you smiled—if only that once.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Love, <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mom</span>Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-4704379082071988572013-02-22T14:24:00.000-08:002013-02-23T10:36:35.762-08:00Bears all things<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0U-Ficwmk0/USfacvUqoVI/AAAAAAAAADk/A3z8SBnQlY0/s1600/On+The+Night+You+Were+Born.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="633" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0U-Ficwmk0/USfacvUqoVI/AAAAAAAAADk/A3z8SBnQlY0/s640/On+The+Night+You+Were+Born.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span>&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span>&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Son,<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes we read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On the Night You Were Born</i> —mostly because you are enamored with the polar bears dancing under the moon on the cover—because it is a great story about,well, see title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And the words couldn’t be truer, how miraculous it is, how wonderfully and fearfully we are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But every story is unique; some are happy, some are excruciating, some scary, some confusing, some joyous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This one is yours—a little bit of everything, with the happiest ending of all:<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The evening your father and I checked into the hospital,fourth floor, there was a full moon scheduled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>It was a Friday in the middle of a blazing hot August.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There was no room in the Labor and Delivery Wing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Even more women were laboring away in the Mother-Baby recovery rooms in the adjacent wing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The influence of the moon is great, son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It causes the oceans to flood and ebb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It wields control over the tides, that small, cold rock in our orbit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Its own gravitational pull is a force to reckon with, causing huge, salty bodies of water on Earth’s surface to slosh, to swell according to her position in the skies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This is undisputed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But folklore (and werewolf movies) suggests that the moon has power over other bodies too, namely our own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Even great philosophers believed that a full moon could induce lunacy (punny, right?) and that night, many moons ago, I believed that maybe it could induce labor, which is only a little like lunacy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was no stranger to the fourth floor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I had been there once a week for the past three weeks for non-stress testing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>You were a handful, kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But handing my insurance information through the little glass window for the umpteenth time, I was ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was 38 weeks pregnant,wearing maternity jorts (jean-shorts, it’s a thing) and I was r-e-a-d-y.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was relaxed and non-sweaty (compared to all the squirmy women being wheeled around me) and excited to think that the next time I left this hospital it would be with you in my arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your Dad left work early and we settled into our room where I was to be induced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>According to the Doctor, it was no big deal that we didn’t have a laboring room ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She didn’t expect to see you for 24 more hours,at least, which was when she was on-call again (but she, not the practice’s mid-wife, had to be there anyway because you were what they call “high-risk”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“These rooms are more comfortable, anyway,” added the nurse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Which is funny, because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">comfortable</i> is not a thing you are in hospitals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Nope.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So they induced me with some drug, the name of which I can’tremember, not Pitocin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They stuck me with needles and hooked me up to monitors so they could keep tabs on you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My parents stepped right off a transatlantic flight and came to visit us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>We watched T.V. and I ate graham crackers and sipped watery juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Sometime before dinner the nurse forbade me to eat anything else and removed the induction drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Something on the monitor had alarmed her and she rushed into our room with a handful of pillows and started rolling me around in the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Your heart rate had dropped, but she got it back up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>The Doctor came to visit and said if that happened again (it didn’t) we would be going into surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>She also said that if I planned on getting any sleep that night, I should take an Ambien.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I declined, and she said she would write the script anyway—just in case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>At shift change, the new nurse brought me a little blue pill in a paper cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What’s this?” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ambien.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The script was in your chart.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, I don’t know…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Trust me, you’re going to want this,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I succumbed to the peer pressure, and this is where the story gets hazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The following is an account I’ve had to piece together from eye-witnesses (mainly, your father):<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometime in the middle of night, though in hospitals it’shard to tell what’s day and night, I stumble with all my monitors and accoutrements into the bathroom to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">g-e-t-s-i-c-k </i>(don’t like any of the words to describe this, so, going into details about labor…well, I’ll just skim over most of the icky).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Then I paged the nurse for anti-nausea meds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Several times in a row.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“On a scale of 1 to 10, what’s your pain?” the nurse continually asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I just couldn’t understand this question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What’s one? A splinter, a stubbed toe…but don’t those hurt terribly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What is a ten? A missing limb?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And if I’ve never experienced any of these,how will I know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Two seemed like a good answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I didn’t want to be a drama queen about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I stuck with a solid two throughout the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I’m not impervious to pain but I just have a hard time feeling it in numbers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, the night nurse got smart and thought that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t feeling this pain-scale of numbers thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Give me colors, words: What’s your pain on a scale of purple to silver?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Purple being a happy pain and silver being excruciating?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Anything but numbers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The nurse checked to see if I was dilated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was 5 cm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>F-I-V-E centimeters and feeling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>You can give me a pat on the back someday for this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was time to roll me into a just-ready-5-minutes-ago labor and delivery room. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Epidural. Epidural,” I was trying to mumble through my Ambien-coma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was around 5:30 a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I got one, but it was too late to feel its sweet effects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In the time it took the nurse to run-walk me to the delivery room, I was 10 cm and good to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(Skimming over the icky here).<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let the record show that your father was a trooper, my rock, and strong through it all. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After an hour of pushing I sobered up a bit and committed to actually holding you in my arms before the nurses had to change shift again at7 a.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You were born, however, on a Saturday at 8:34 a.m. on August13<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>While other people in our time-zone were sleeping-in, or starting the coffee and thinking about doughnuts, (or going to bed in the case of our night nurses), we were welcoming you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But you were maybe not ready for all the hustle and bustle,the hoopla, the blazing hot summer, the moon and its tides, the numbers assigned to pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I admit, the world can be a crazy place but we wanted so badly to welcome you into it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Safely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>The nurses grabbed you up and I waited to hear you cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I waited 10 seconds I turned my eyes toward the table where the nurses were suctioning out your mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Twenty, maybe thirty seconds passed and still, I waited and hoped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I had seen this before on TLC’s:A Baby Story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I remember thinking that it always turned out fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Fine, fine,fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Buttons were being pushed. Rubber-soled shoes were squeaking, hurriedly around the room. Time seemed to pass so slowly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Reinforcements. Another team to work on you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>A doctor in blue scrubs rushed in, she was wearing red One-Stars for her shift that Saturday morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Out of the way,” I think I remember her saying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There must have been 20 people in the room,or maybe just 7 or 8.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I remember feeling so helpless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In those slow seconds, I think Dad and I got to know the Man Upstairs a little better. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, after a whole 60 seconds you came back to us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I heard a weak cry, as if to test your pipes out, and then you really let loose with the wailing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>When the doctors and nurses were satisfied with your pinkish color, I was finally able to hold you for the first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of all the times I had imaged holding you for the first time, it never occurred to me you'd have no teeth. Staring into a wailing pink hole your smooth shiny gums were so strange to me, so beautiful to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>You were perfect. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But they took you away after that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Wheeled you away to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>and your father followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I had to stay behind for a little bit, until Icould feel my legs again, and the nurse tried her best to get me to eat something while I entertained visitors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Family members who were on their way to the beach passed through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Family members who were still jet-lagged stepped in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Eating and entertaining were not things I felt like doing, son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>That half-hour felt like a life-time, missing you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>When everyone had cleared out, and the nurse helped me into the wheelchair, I began to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And that sweet nurse (sadly I cannot remember her name) said:<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, you’re just like me; trying to be strong for everyone…waiting until everyone is gone.” And I cried harder because I was not strong at all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>And then she hugged me while we both cried a little more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were worried for you,son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were all rooting for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the short ride to the place where they were keeping you,I thought of the hospital tour your father and I took during an all-day childbirth class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>“And this is the NICU, God forbid you have to go in there,” the guide said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>And, suddenly, I was mad because we were the “God forbid” people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;</span></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>(God bless you if you ever have to walk in those shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And bless the NICU workers everywhere…theyare special people.)</em> <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p>&nbsp;</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was overwhelmed with all the tiny beds and cubes and whirring machines in that room and I worried that I wouldn’t be able to recognize you,my own baby, since we had spent such a short time together. But then I saw all the thick, black hair, and knew it was you; that you were mine, and I was yours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Though the good doctors said you wouldn’t have to stay long in the NICU, there were still some things you had to learn how to do before you could leave: breathe without taking any extended breaks and eat (two things at which you now excel).<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sadly, I could not take you with me when we checked out of the hospital two days later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Imagine not wanting to leave the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Imagine it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep next to your little bed in the loud, beeping, rubber-soles-squeaking <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>NICU.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the morning, the transporter arrived with a chair to wheel me downstairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was time to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It seemed like a million years ago that I had been excited for this moment—the moment where I got to leave the hospital with you in my arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I thought that if I could just sit there in that hospital bed a little longer, things would surely have to go my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The way I had imaged it. The way I had planned. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The transporter waited. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I crossed my arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Checking out today?” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do I have to ride in that thing?” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think so…well, you’ll want to anyways.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, so it goes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>While your Dad packed up the car, I was wheeled down to the lobby carrying not a fat, sleepy baby but a leafy-green potted plant—some congratulatorygift—while the woman in front of me held a freshly bathed baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will admit that I was so angry, son. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I just wanted you home with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why, oh why did I have to be one of the “God forbid” people?</i> I stupidly wondered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But you were right where you needed to be with people who knew how to take care of you, and the people that loved you (who are many) visited often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Although you stayed in the NICU for only seven days, it felt like a century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Your father and I were there five times a day, feeding, changing and bathing you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We called every night at 3a.m. to check on you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>We got to do the normal things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It just wasn’t how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> planned it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There’s a saying that goes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tell God your plans</i>… <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div align="center">***</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that is the story of the “marvelous, wonderful [morning] you were born.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I’m sure Dad and I will tell it to you many times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And maybe the details will become more imaginative over time—the doctors: superheroes, the moon: a powerful force over human actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Or maybe those things were already true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>No matter, this story will go down in family history forever and ever as the greatest, most miraculous and trying, but definitely most rewarding experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;</span></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I leave you with this passage from another great book I hope you’ll also enjoy reading one day:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em>Love suffers long, and is kind; love envies not; love vaunts not itself, is not puffed up,</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em>Does not behave itself rudely, seeks not her own, is not easily provoked, keeps no record of evil;</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em>Rejoices not in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em>Bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.</em></div></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-1 Corinthians 13<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;</span></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Reading this verse, I always chuckle a little when I reach the last line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It reminds me not only of child-bearing,but also of polar bears dancing under that big, beautiful moon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">May you always love and be loved,</span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-25712175560570002942013-02-19T16:28:00.000-08:002013-02-19T16:28:05.381-08:00Favorite ThingsDear Son,<br /><br />I thought it would be fun to post on here some of your favorite things right now.&nbsp; I'll show you with pictures and captions.<br /><br />Nothing makes you happier than flinging all the books off of this shelf:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dxMgduPO-_8/USPTUydJOKI/AAAAAAAAAB8/bTDwQ4AQawE/s1600/blogpic1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dxMgduPO-_8/USPTUydJOKI/AAAAAAAAAB8/bTDwQ4AQawE/s320/blogpic1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, this is your favorite book for us to read together:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kbFb7vFuaE4/USPT0uqltWI/AAAAAAAAACE/5dLCp4lfSWM/s1600/blogpic2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kbFb7vFuaE4/USPT0uqltWI/AAAAAAAAACE/5dLCp4lfSWM/s320/blogpic2.JPG" width="291" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading this, you point and say "Star" many, many times with increasing volume.<br /><br />﻿<br />&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">﻿</div>You like to watch silly videos on YouTube.&nbsp; The ones with singing animals and/or inanimate objects with animate features are your favorite:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3Up5vZgm5Yk/USPWilc9cfI/AAAAAAAAACU/13L1sCC_sig/s1600/blogpic3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3Up5vZgm5Yk/USPWilc9cfI/AAAAAAAAACU/13L1sCC_sig/s320/blogpic3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />You also give plenty of hugs and loving shoves to this furry creature, Abby:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uGsIl_VXUWY/USPXFNawkOI/AAAAAAAAACc/nf72rAtokm8/s1600/blogpic4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uGsIl_VXUWY/USPXFNawkOI/AAAAAAAAACc/nf72rAtokm8/s320/blogpic4.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><br />You like to carry these around, point them at the T.V. and grunt, bang them on any hard surface, and sometimes you talk on them like telephones. You love just holding the remote.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HwSPLHE0sPw/USPYcopPITI/AAAAAAAAACk/1XRaP_Ar1FY/s1600/blogpic5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HwSPLHE0sPw/USPYcopPITI/AAAAAAAAACk/1XRaP_Ar1FY/s320/blogpic5.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />You love to carry this little guy around.&nbsp; He's just your size and, also, he looks kind of like a baby. And also this is really weird...nuff' said.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XzauLVk79aI/USPcaxlWVjI/AAAAAAAAAC0/SZvlS6wA2N0/s1600/blogpic6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XzauLVk79aI/USPcaxlWVjI/AAAAAAAAAC0/SZvlS6wA2N0/s320/blogpic6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddha</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;One time, I caught you carrying&nbsp;the Buddha baby in one hand and this guy in the other.&nbsp; Becuase that is how we roll.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DBQNDoXB3j0/USPdlFqTLcI/AAAAAAAAAC8/JGY1R2KssS0/s1600/blogpic7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DBQNDoXB3j0/USPdlFqTLcI/AAAAAAAAAC8/JGY1R2KssS0/s1600/blogpic7.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Noah from your Little People: Noah's Arc set.&nbsp; He usually takes the Jeep instead of the arc, if you couldn't tell.<br />&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is another favorite toy of yours, we have several&nbsp;varying figurines like him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d7N6z7_Hc5U/USPfRLrwUnI/AAAAAAAAADE/tSoGRPTtCVI/s1600/blogpic8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d7N6z7_Hc5U/USPfRLrwUnI/AAAAAAAAADE/tSoGRPTtCVI/s320/blogpic8.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Skateboard Creeper" Buzz<br />&nbsp;Just look at that smile...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;Another thing you love is your Dad's hats.&nbsp; He wears them often.&nbsp; We looked for this one in particular for weeks.&nbsp; You had hidden it in your closet.&nbsp; Needless to say, it's your favorite hat (Dad's too):</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E3Tkv0WoA6M/USPgVtX008I/AAAAAAAAADM/QVL4e3NRa_U/s1600/blogpic9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E3Tkv0WoA6M/USPgVtX008I/AAAAAAAAADM/QVL4e3NRa_U/s320/blogpic9.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br />And last, but not least, are these:<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UtgL15kQoZA/USPgoYVS2rI/AAAAAAAAADU/WdHOS_WtFSo/s1600/blogpic10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UtgL15kQoZA/USPgoYVS2rI/AAAAAAAAADU/WdHOS_WtFSo/s320/blogpic10.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When all else fails, have some goldfish. Baby size.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table>So, there you have it.&nbsp; Maybe you can look back on this one day (you know, as long as this whole internet thing isn't just a fad) and enjoy reliving some of your favorite things.&nbsp; Your tastes are constantly evolving though, so I will try to stay current.<br /><br />Love,<br />Mom and Dad<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">﻿</div>Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-18546158344928031852013-02-16T17:52:00.000-08:002013-02-17T06:10:32.003-08:00Taking Back BoredomSon,<br /><br />I want you to know that some days there just isn't much going on.&nbsp; As I was thinking about what to bloggity-blog on here, you sat wearing only a diaper and your brand new&nbsp;sneaks (upon your insistence, of course) and endlessly dropping one of your toy tool-box screws through an empty paper towel tube.&nbsp; I want to save this image in my head forever because (well, in part because as soon as you saw me with pen and paper&nbsp;your contentment with independent play instantly faded and you climbed into my lap to snatch the pen away) I know that someday you are going to tell me, "I'm bored!"<br /><br />By the way, this is what you drew:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ktcb5ZwJ2ZE/USAri4RjJTI/AAAAAAAAABs/0DaA336GZnw/s1600/photodraw.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ktcb5ZwJ2ZE/USAri4RjJTI/AAAAAAAAABs/0DaA336GZnw/s320/photodraw.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I remember most of my childhood (sans cable T.V. -read: Disney Channel- until my tweens) repeating the phrase, "I'm bored." To which my father would say, "What I wouldn't give to be bored again."&nbsp; I didn't understand it then, but I do now.&nbsp; When you are an adult with resposibilities, and perhaps children, there's no<em> time</em> to be bored.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, does<em> bored </em>have to be a bad word?&nbsp; Maybe it isn't the right word, but I want to remember the <em>boring </em>moments with you and Dad most.&nbsp; I'm sure the internet is already rife with ephemera, and yes, I could write about more salient things like your miraculous birth story, your hospital stays and ambulance rides (when I got carsick), countless IVs and leads and monitors,&nbsp;your MRI, the good, the bad and the ugly of pediatric specialists, and all the worrying and waiting.&nbsp; And maybe one day I will write about that (when I figure out how).&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But for now I will recount the <em>boring</em> moments when you were an infant and I held you practically all day long, when I brought you into bed in the early morning hours and we snuggled until a more decent hour (like 10 a.m.).&nbsp; Or when you and me and Dad all sit on the floor and do, well, nothing in particular.&nbsp; But there's laughing. Lots of laughing.&nbsp; And now, my favorite part of the day when I sit on the couch with you and look out the window into the cul-de-sac and watch the winter sky turn from blue dark to black dark.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em></em>&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em></em>&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe I was never bored.&nbsp; Nevertheless, one day, I hope you can find the joy in being<em> bored</em>.<em></em></div><br /><br />Love, <br />MomMolly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-62202005818333247632013-02-12T14:08:00.001-08:002013-02-13T05:39:43.266-08:00What's your Story?Dear Son,<br /><br />Today is your half-birthday.&nbsp; Happy eighteenth month (plus some) on this planet! We are very blessed to be here together.&nbsp; Me. You. Dad.&nbsp; You are such an observant child&nbsp;with big, beautiful eyes, that I'm often wondering what you're thinking.&nbsp;You are seriously eagle-eyed with impeccable attention to detail; just the other day you were pointing fervently at a vauge area in the corner of the house.<br /><br />"Window?" I asked.<br /><br />You&nbsp;shook your head.<br /><br />"Hmm, light?"<br /><br />No.<br /><br />"Oh, the trees outside!"<br /><br />You squinted, still pointing.&nbsp; By the time you gave me a verbal clue to what you were pointing at, I had convinced myself that maybe you had a sixth sense and&nbsp;did it&nbsp;just get colder in here?!&nbsp; And, OMG, my son sees dead people!<br /><br />"Hoo,&nbsp;hoo," you said.&nbsp; Instantly, I saw the cardinal in the bare braches of the tree in our backyard. You have quite the eye, or maybe I need glasses.&nbsp; I love guessing games, but I'm looking forward to some conversation.&nbsp; I'm sure I'll hear from you soon enough, though some days it's hard not to let my imagination get carried away.&nbsp; Anyway, I thought I'd take a little space here to tell you what I've been thinking.<br /><br />When (if) I have some free-time, between three meal-times, snack-time, juicebox-time (hydration is key), peek-a-boo-time, general-run-around-the-house-time, story-time, laundry-time (you're a big help, really!), N-A-P-time when I pretend to sleep until you fall asleep,&nbsp;and finally&nbsp;bath-time, I sometimes like to daydream (or think about why, WHY? do all the girls on <em>Teen Mom</em> wear VS PINK sweats head-to-toe: coincidental bad taste or what?). But, seriously, I&nbsp;mostly think about us and how our lives have gone and where they will go and if I'm being a patient parent and if I'm living&nbsp;a life that sets a good example for you.<br /><br />I hope that one day many, many years from now when someone asks you (in a non-awkward, think-y way): <em>So, what's your story?</em>,&nbsp;that you'll have plenty of good things to say.&nbsp; I want you to know that we are all writing our own stories the best we can.&nbsp; There is no greater entity like Fate or Destiny holding the ink pen for you, making all the character and plot decisions--that is ALL YOU.&nbsp; Sure, there will be things that you want to cross out and people you want to erase, but that is the beauty of a <em>story</em>.&nbsp; If ever in your life things aren't going in the direction you want, remember you are&nbsp;holding the pen.&nbsp; And even though there are no re-dos, just keep on <em>writing</em> the <em>right</em> way. Can you tell we've been reading <em>Oh, the Places You'll Go </em>lately?<br /><br />Even at 18 months you are a pro with the pen.&nbsp; You always try to sneak them out of your Dad's pocket when he comes home from work.&nbsp; So, I'm sure you'll know just what to do.&nbsp; I hope you never write us out of your story, son, because we want&nbsp;to share our stories with you and see what all the chapters&nbsp;to come&nbsp;will hold!<br /><br />Love,<br />MomMolly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444342089976086844.post-79697964734911527902013-02-10T13:20:00.000-08:002013-02-11T11:06:26.674-08:00Stay at Home<span lang="EN"><em>I always thought I’d be more successful by now</em>,</span>&nbsp;is a thought many women (and men) sometimes have at year’s end when it’s customary to consider what we’ve accomplished (bought my eighteenth pair of brown leather boots!) and, perhaps, have not accomplished (donated seventeen pairs of brown leather boots to a deserving boot charity). <br /><br />I had a thought similar to this when attacking one of my New Year resolutions; well, actually, I was sharing a pop-tart with my fifteen month old—not a resolution, I’ll get to that part—and observing our surroundings. See, my undergraduate diploma hangs, there, on the wall above a gigantic teddy bear whose head nods whimsically atop his over-stuffed belly so that he appears constantly slumbering in hibernation. <br /><br /><em>Dreamy, </em>I think. <br /><em>Moo,</em> says my son.<br /><br /><i>Ironic</i>, is what I think of the unintentional design in my Office-converted-haphazardly-into-a-play-room. There’s tents and tunnels amongst ten or twelve variations of the Woody doll and also every size, color, and texture of ball on the market. Oh, and giraffes. Who doesn’t like giraffes? The room is seriously a couple of Duplo blocks away from an episode of <i>Hoarders</i>. <br /><br />Anyway, I recently scribbled on scrap paper:<br /><br /><em>New Year Resolutions:</em><br /><dir><em></em><dir><em> </em><em> -Organize toy room.</em></dir></dir> <br />Meaning, I had already surrendered the “Office” part. There it was in black and white: Toy. Room. Trying to create anything in this shrinking enclave of ink pens and a virus-ridden lap-top (due to neglect, obviously) is too stressful. Even the office chair, which served as the demarcation line, a clear symbol of <b><i>this</i></b><i></i> is office, <b><i>that</i></b><i></i> is playroom, had to be removed. The residents of Playroom were using it as a climbing wall. Now the desk on which the laptop sits serves as Playroom’s official Place-For-Found-Dangerous-Objects-That-No-One-Can-Reach-For-Now. <br /><br />It might as well be called “don’t” and not desk: “Don’t pull on that drawer,” “Don’t touch those pens,” “Don’t crawl under there and yank out the computer cable (and all the electrical wiring in the wall).”<br /><br />Over the months, the “don’t” collects old post-its littered with grocery lists, pen caps, and piles of unused or barely used journals. Leather-bound, floral, large, pocket-sized, lined and blank. Christmas gifts, impulse buys. Sometimes I kneel in front of the “don’t,” carefully open my lap-top and listen to it whirr, perhaps intending to do some vague form of work. But that’s as far as I get. The “don’t" is really just a relic like the Diploma written in Latin hanging ironically behind me.<br /><br /><br /><i></i><br /><i>The good old days?<br /> </i><br /><strong>No</strong>, I have the best of days ahead me. The work I do at home—supervising pudding painting (and eating), singing an off-key version of the Itsy Bitsy Spider with a few improved dance moves thrown in for giggles—is the most rewarding work I could ask for. Even the conversations I have at home that go: “Quack, Quack,” and then, “Quack, Quack, Quack,” are way more interesting than any water-cooler chit chat I’ve had the pleasure of hearing friends recount. <br /><br />If work is not what makes us who we are, then I want my son to know I’m not <i>just</i> a stay-at-home-mom, I’m a stay-at-home-Molly. And, also, it’s not a “don’t,” it's a desk. Really. But let’s, me and you, put that part of life off for as long as we possibly can, kiddo.&nbsp; To rephrase my opening thought, when I look at you, son, I’m more successful than I ever thought I’d be. And I hope you are too one day. <br /><br /><br />Molly B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07102683219732464016noreply@blogger.com4